THOSE WHO SUFFER LOVE
I keep sitting down here and trying to write about how terrified and unterrified and overwhelmed and unenthused I am. About how much I do and do not want to leave, and how much I don't want to be in San Francisco but I want to be away and I want and I don't and I do but I can't and it will but it still never can.
I remember that dream I had of you where it was all in the dark, in subways full of people who spoke other languages and on front lawns, which were all cool and wet, watching the televisions play static through everyone's front windows. And I remember the dream I had where I watched you in a department store and you pretended not to notice, and I remember the dream where I passed you in a hallway and got chills.
I spent all last summer dreaming of held hands, but this summer I haven't dreamt of anything, I haven't had anything at all.
I can't finish this because it's just the same thing I've said since I can remember. One day, one day, one day...
I've said all this a thousand times before... I once again feel as if I'm just sitting on my hands...